


With You Hiding in My Bones

by dapatty



Series: that werewolf!verse [4]
Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, Life, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Anal Sex, Animal Transformation, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Rimming, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-22
Updated: 2012-05-22
Packaged: 2017-11-06 13:01:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/419210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dapatty/pseuds/dapatty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during the recording of MCR's fourth studio album.  Bob felt like he was just turning his wheels, but Gerard kept saying that the album was missing something.  Maybe it was frustration with the process, maybe it was the sunny weather, or maybe it was the temporary insanity of saying yes to Frank and agreeing to going to that party.  He knew better, especially when he got attacked and woke up a werewolf the next day and that was only the start of his problems. To top it all off, Frank finally makes a move.  Everything goes fine until Bob can't seem to get control of himself and Bob leaves his band, essentially running away to figure out if he can make peace with his wolf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With You Hiding in My Bones

**Author's Note:**

> Additional warnings for brief violence in the form of a bite and description of transformation and discovery of knots but no knotting in the fic.
> 
> Written for [werewolfbigbang](werewolfbigbang.livejournal.com). Art by [](http://art-brutal.livejournal.com/profile)[**art_brutal**](http://art-brutal.livejournal.com/)  
>  and the lovely art can be found [ here](http://art-brutal.livejournal.com/4646.html)
> 
> Title from Empires “Bang”. Beta’d by [](http://s0ckpupp3t.livejournal.com/profile)[**s0ckpupp3t**](http://s0ckpupp3t.livejournal.com/) & [](http://dear-monday.livejournal.com/profile)[**dear_monday**](http://dear-monday.livejournal.com/). Without those two, I’d be absolutely lost. Completely and totally. And special thanks to [](http://denija.livejournal.com/profile)[**denija**](http://denija.livejournal.com/) who kept me squeefully on track.

“Still no,” Bob said flatly, in response to Frank’s fifth invite to the same house party. But he felt his resolve wavering.

Bob hadn’t wanted to go out. Not even a little. He had this feeling in the pit of his stomach, like he used to get back when he still lived in Chicago—that feeling of something coming. It had always kept him out of trouble. But now, Frank was making that face at him. The face that was all megawatt smiles mixed with mischief. The face that, despite years of exposure, Bob still hadn’t built up a resistance to. It also didn’t help that Frank has been kind of relentless and practically glowing from the start of recording. Making a hardcore punk record during the hiatus and being married to Jamia suited him, seeming to make his supply of energy even more annoyingly boundless.

“C’mon, Bobert. It’ll be fun! You never come out and have fun anymore.” Frank gave Bob his best puppy-dog eyes. Bob really needed to get that feeling under control, that warmth down deep in his belly when Frank looked at him like that. So stupid. But maybe Frank was right. Maybe it’d be good to get out of the house and just not be in the studio for an evening.

They’d all kind of fallen into a routine. The songs were coming along, but Gerard kept muttering about something missing, and damned if Bob could figure out what it was. Everything was solid. It was becoming a perfectly solid rock record. It was fine. There was nothing wrong with solid. Maybe they’d just toured too long with Parade. But Bob wanted to think about the state of the record even less than he wanted to examine his not-entirely-platonic warmth for Frank. _Married_ Frank. _Annoying little shit_ Frank. He should have said no. He was just about to, when--

“Yeah, Bob,” Ray chimed in.

Fuck. And if Ray was asking him to go, then at least there’d be a voice of reason at the party. Ray bumped shoulders with him and Bob slumped a little.

“Fine,” Bob sighed deeply and Frank made actual fucking victory arms. “But I am not the DD. I refuse to babysit your freaky hyper drunk ass.”

“No worries,” Ray said, rattling his keys with a wry smile.

“Toro, you have always been my favorite,” Bob said, gravely. It wasn’t completely untrue. Ray was solid, and calm, and the least likely to shave Bob’s head or draw batman signals on his face.

“You wound me,” Frank pouted dramatically. Bob ruffled his hair, making Frank flail and scramble out of Bob’s reach, sticking out a defiant tongue. Because that wasn’t distracting, or anything.

Bob smiled despite himself. Yeah, he was being ridiculous. That feeling in the pit of his stomach was just a stupid attraction, the doomed urge to shove Frank up against a wall and fuck his brains out. Probably. At least that’s what Bob was chalking it up to, and promptly burying right back where it belonged.

 

*****

It was a house party, like back in the beginning--even after Bob joined the band, the boys still got dragged to them. Back in the days when Frank would hover near Gerard as Gee held on to a Coke Zero like it was a lifeline. Sometimes Bob would walk with Gerard down the block. Sometimes Ray. It was different now. Well, this house was at least a lot nicer than those from the early days. But Gerard wasn’t here. It was just Frank and Ray, and he saw Mikey flit by and disappear with Pete with a half-wistful smile. That feeling of foreboding was sitting like a stone in his gut.

They’d barely made it through the door when Gabe appeared with a tray of shot glasses filled with ominous green liquid.

“Boys!” Gabe beamed at them, eyes lingering on Bob for just a second, and Bob could swear there was a hint of concern tucked into the edges.

“Christ, that looks like a tray full of headaches,” Ray observed and gave Gabe a small bow. “I’m going to find the beer. Nice, safe, not-green, beer.” Ray disappeared into the party.

“Yeah, I’m not gonna be intimidated by your fuckin’ tray,” Frank gave a cocky jut of his hips and reached out for the first shot glass. “But what the hell is in it?”

“Cake-flavored vodka colored with Absinthe,” Gabe beamed.

“Sounds disgusting,” Bob frowned at the shot glass he was holding.

“Don’t knock it until you try it,” Gabe smirked. “Bottoms up.”

They both knocked their shots back, grimacing. It tasted like liquorice buttercream frosting, burned all the way down Bob’s throat and down to the bottom of his belly, and did a little to ease that feeling of dread.

Everything pretty much went downhill from there.

Bob was four beers and three shots into the party. One of the green cake ones, and two of something that had to be half rum and half evil, the buzz settling into his belly and making him feel mellow and slow. But it was so hot in here, and Frank was hanging all over him--being in his space, arm wrapped around his back with a hand resting on his shoulder. Almost like Frank was laying claim, but he couldn’t be. He had Jamia. He couldn’t want Bob in any way other than a convenient cuddle companion, and drunken Frank loved to cuddle. It was practically a rule of the universe. Drunken-Frank. Drunkenfrank. Bob chuckled.

“Frankendrunk.” Bob punched Frank’s ear a little.

Frank looked at him then, and there was something tucked into the corners of his face. It just figured that a punch would be the only thing that got through to Frank. Now it was almost like he wanted something, a touch of dark shining in his eyes. Frank licked his lips and rose up on tiptoe, still looking, and something was happening here. This was one of those shared moments that could be perfect or end in regret, and Bob was frozen in it. And he wasn’t entirely sure if Frank wasn’t just grinning before giving Bob a black eye. But either way, it was too much, too warm. He just needed some air. If he could just move. And Frank was waiting to see what Bob would do.

“Another round!” Gabe declared, leaping on a table brandishing a tray filled with even more disposable shot glasses filled with bright green. “It’s not a party until we’ve all had a Dragon’s Nipple!”

Their moment broken, Bob blinked and gave his head a little shake to clear it, but it was still fuzzy around the edges. He slipped away from Frank, making some incoherent line about going outside. For a second there, Frank looked utterly sad, almost blink and you’d miss it. Bob could have written it off as his imagination, because then the blinding smile was back as if he hadn’t missed a beat. There were spots dotting the corners of Bob’s vision, so was probably just seeing something that wasn’t there.

He smiled back at Frank, and Frank let him go.

When Bob got outside, he realized that his feet didn’t feel connected to his legs. He felt like he was a moment out of sync with himself, a blip on a record that couldn’t quite make its way back into the groove. He didn’t stay in the backyard, instead drifting without thought out the back garden gate and meandering onto the sidewalk.

He should just call a cab and go back to his apartment. He nodded to himself for having such sound reasoning, then stopped when it made him dizzy. He pulled out his cell phone to dial, squinting at the blurry screen. His thumb didn’t want to slide properly across the numbers.

If Frank could just stop being so... Frank, it would be easier. Frank could keep the meaningful looks and the leering ones, too, for that matter. Just no. Bob valued his balls too much to tread on Jamia’s territory. Gerard seemed to be Frank’s exception, not the rule as far as relationships went. Frank didn’t seem to be poly, didn’t seem to be open, didn’t even really seem that into guys, hadn’t said anything, and those little want-filled looks were driving Bob bugfuck crazy.

The feeling of dread, of something being a bit off, was worse now, but he still couldn’t get his phone unlocked. Distracted, Bob tripped over his shoelace and went down hard, landing mostly on his shoulder and temple taking the hit, air rushing out of his chest.

“Fuck, shit, fuckfuckfuck,” he muttered, finally catching his breath, and thought, _at least I didn’t break my fall with my wrists._ He tried to sit up, vision blurry. Much dizzier than before. “Shit.”

Bob didn’t hear what crept up behind him. He just felt a puff of hot breath and caught a glimpse of a dark muzzle before he felt pain, teeth ripping into the meat of his arm, caught the sharp smell of copper and a scream that was probably from him. The pain spread out, throbbing up his arm and across his chest, stretching, crawling, aching with each heartbeat and then Bob blacked the fuck out.

******

_Teeth and pain and bones snapped and rearranged and then running, running, running. Car horn blaring. Hide. Run._ Bob thought those were memories, or part of a terrible dream, or the start of the worst hangover ever.

Early. It _smelled_ early. He got a whiff of coffee on the breeze and fabric softener, a green smelling one. What was it with all the green shit lately? It was bird-chirping early, the tweeting doing nothing to help the pounding in his head. Bob was on the ground—on the grass to be specific, and tucked under a bush in someone’s back yard. And he was naked.

Wait.

Naked. Totally lacking clothes. And he _hurt_. He was sore all over, like he’d run a marathon, doubled back for a swim across Lake Michigan, and then gotten hit by a truck.

And did he get bit by a fucking dog when he was drunk off his ass? He tried to look at his upper arm where he remembered the biting and could almost make out silvery scar lines of teeth, but his vision blurred and his head ached from the change of angle. Right, first step: stop being naked in somebody’s back yard. No, not somebody’s. Patrick’s. Bob squinted against the morning sun’s glare on the glass of the back door and saw movement, Patrick’s blond hair. He was home, then.

Bob got up slowly, muscles protesting, dusting grass off his side while shambling over to a bed sheet hanging on the neighbor’s line. He tore it off without preamble, wrapping it around his middle like a towel and toga combo. Patrick was totally going to have to wash it for his neighbour, or something. It would have been better if it had been Patrick’s laundry, but Patrick didn’t do laundry that often. And if he did, he wouldn’t have hung it out on the line at whatever-fucking-morning-time it was. Sheets were probably the least of Patrick’s filth-related worries right now.

Bob shuffled over to the back patio, feet tender even on the grass. When he made it to the door, he pecked on the glass with a knuckle. Patrick startled, sloshing coffee onto his kitchen table, his eyebrows climbing up his forehead when he saw how Bob was dressed. Patrick quickly stood and scrambled for the door.

“Bob,” he said, opening the door. “Where the hell are your clothes?”

“I have no idea,” Bob admitted. “I’m guessing that this is one of those life lessons about not partying with Gabe Saporta.”

Patrick snickered. “Yeah. That’s a definite life lesson that I seem to learn every time I go to New York.” He ushered Bob inside, giving him a peck on the cheek, guiding him inside with a hand on his back. Patrick smelled like lemons, hair gel, and rosemary, and Bob kept getting whiffs of something sharp and bright, all of which was more than he was used to. Maybe he was still wasted. Everything was too bright and too sharp and too loud.

“You’d think you’d learn,” Bob chided, feeling awkward just standing there in the sheet as Patrick got out another mug and poured coffee into it.

“So, what really happened?” Patrick asked, handing Bob the mug.

“’Trick, I’m not sure, man,” Bob answered, taking the mug with his free hand and giving a shrug. “Last thing I remember was being really drunk and going outside for a walk and maybe dreaming that I got attacked by a dog and some weird shit.”

“Weird shit?” Patrick lifted an eyebrow. “How weird we talking? Did the dog bite you?”

“Yeah, well, I thought the dog bit me,” Bob said brandishing his upper arm. It had felt so real, teeth tearing into the flesh. “But I just tripped over my own goddamn shoelaces and might’ve hit my head.”

“This clumsy thing isn’t like you, Bryar,” Patrick said, sitting his mug down on the counter and examining Bob’s arm, frowning at the scar. It was a faint crescent moon that could have always been there.

“I was pretty fuckin’ trashed,” Bob said defensively. “And at least I didn’t fall on my wrists.”

“You barely have a mark on you,” Patrick observed, fingers trailing along the scar on Bob’s wrist and then checking out Bob’s face. “Like, I don’t even know if you had this scar before, it looks so old.”

“I feel like I got hit by a train,” Bob grumbled, “And then had Technicolor hallucinations where I was a dog.”

“Still doesn’t quite explain how you lost all your clothes,” Patrick noted.

“Unless you list Gabe as a possible reason. I was pretty out of it.” Bob countered, but he felt like he just wasn’t processing everything. He just hurt too much. “And distracted by,” Bob shifted, suddenly uncomfortable, “ _things_.”

“Frankie was at this party, wasn’t he?” Patrick grinned.

“Oh, shut up. Iero didn’t have shit to do with this,” Bob defended.

“Unless you count getting blindingly drunk to avoid your crush. In which case, he might have had a little bit to do with it.” Patrick said ruefully.

“This isn’t high school. I don’t have a fucking crush. Besides, he’s married and, even if he wasn’t, he’s not into me,” Bob reasoned.

“Right,” Patrick said, “Clearly.” Patrick was giving Bob his best _I think you’re an idiot_ face.

“Okay. Trick. I am hung-the-fuck-over. I woke up naked. I need a shower. I possibly took something hallucinogenic like I was some idiot teenager at a college party,” Bob tried to give Patrick his best ‘drop it’ glare, but the effect was probably spoiled by his current toga/towel/sheet attire. He looked down and winced until both of them laughed.

“So, I think you left some sweatpants here and probably a t shirt,” Patrick said agreeably.

“It has been awhile since I’ve stayed over,” Bob gave a half smile, taking the mug with his free hand and followed Patrick deeper into his house.

“Yeah,” Patrick said wistfully.

Bob sighed. They’d always been easy friends, him and Patrick, despite being polar opposites. It had almost felt logical to let that be something more occasionally. Ending up in bed was easy, effortless. It was nice to blow off steam with one of your best friends who just wanted something uncomplicated, who just wanted to get off. Someone who wasn’t in your band and who didn’t have the same baggage. Who didn’t argue so much. But Bob had been so busy with recording and with the whole process and contending with his shitty wrists, and Patrick had been so busy burying himself writing his own music and trying his best not to be heartbroken over Pete that they’d both drifted. Being friends was probably best for them anyway.

“Go ahead. I’ll leave the clothes on the sink and yes, there’s actually clean towels in there,” Patrick offered, gesturing toward the bathroom. “Yes, I am not a complete heathen. I do know how to do laundry on occasion. I only had to hear that lecture twice from you, thanks.”

“I knew you were smart, despite your resistance to taking direction,” Bob chided.

“Oh, I can take direction _very_ well,” Patrick countered, his chin jutting out as he drew his shoulders back. There was something very distracting about it, and it was almost as if Patrick smelled different for a second. Bob really needed a shower. And some ibuprofen. He shook it off.

“I do recall a certain willingness,” Bob allowed, flirting back.

Patrick flashed him a grin and Bob rolled his eyes, but he was smiling as he made his way into the bathroom to take a shower.

********

True to his word, Patrick did find a pair of sweatpants and a worn t shirt of Bob’s that he had forgotten about. The shirt smelled like Patrick, like that lemony smell with a little bit of musk. Bob dozed while Patrick drove him home. The shower made him feel halfway-human again and the breakfast Patrick scrounged up helped too, but he still felt off. Like his skin didn’t feel right over his bones, and the day was so bright and loud and he could smell _everything_.

He kissed Patrick goodbye and ambled up his apartment steps, using a spare key he kept tucked above the door to let himself in. He locked the door behind him and went directly to his bedroom. He didn’t even bother pulling the covers over himself, just faceplanted and went to sleep.

He woke in the middle of the afternoon feeling restless and hot, his shirt sticking to his back. He shucked it off and tossed it toward the hamper. The late winter sun was already low in the sky and the light was blinking insistently on his answering machine.

“Shit,” he muttered to his empty apartment. He’d totally lost his phone. He was going to need to replace that. He sighed and made his way to the kitchen, scratching his beard. He was starving. He felt so shaky, and he noticed a little tremor to his hand as he opened the fridge door and gathered the fixings for a massive sandwich.

He didn’t bother with a plate, just wrapped the whole thing in a paper towel while leaning on the counter and hit the play button on his answering machine.

“Dude,” Gabe Saporta proclaimed first, “I found your phone. It’s in multiple pieces. I hereby declare it a lost cause and recommend you buy another. I also suggest lots of peppermint tea and sleep. Those are my professional opinions. You are welcome. Oh, and I have your shoes.” Beep.

“Bobbbbbeerrrrrrrrrttttt,” Frank whined, voice slurring and sing-song and with the faint sounds of bass in the background. “The fuck did you go? Gabe said he found your phone. You’ve made Ray’s hair worry. Not cool.” Beep.

“Seriously, Bob,” Frank complained two hours later. “You don’t care that I might be a little concerned. You better be dead in a ditch. Or not. I mean. Fuck. Seriously, man. Throw me a bone here.” Beep.

“Bob, you’re okay, right?” Ray’s voice came out of Bob’s answering machine, quiet and intense. Then his tone lightened. “And you’ve left me alone to deal with Frank drooling on my dash, because that’s apparently comfortable. Just so you know.” Bob could hear Frank protesting to the total comfort of his resting place and “Did you get Bob on the phone?” Beep.

“Bob,” Mikeyway had a disapproving eyebrow turned down thirty minutes after that. Bob could _hear_ it. “Frank thinks you’re dead in a ditch on fire. Call him so he’ll stop calling me. And don’t be on fire.” Click. Beep.

“Did you guys go to a party last night?” Gerard this time. “Remember to text me your new cell, man. Me and Lyns and Bandit are going to the desert for a few days, so reception’ll be for shit out there. So. Yeah. Fucking call Frank.” Beep. The machine informed him that Gerard had actually called this morning, while Bob was showering at Patrick’s.

He was halfway through his roast beef and turkey and bologna on rye and listening to Frank’s third message, which seemed to be Frank chewing him out, but it was hard to tell over the staticky connection. The sun was dipping below the horizon when the first cramp hit. He dropped his sandwich on the counter and doubled over, just trying to breathe through it, but it didn’t stop. It kept getting worse and worse, spreading out from the center of him and up his arms and down his legs, causing his knees to buckle, and he fell. The cool tile floor almost a relief against the red-hot pain, hurt, ache that was worse than any stomach bug, worse than the pain in his wrists, worse than that one night he’d drunk an entire bottle of vodka.

A whimper escaped his throat and, to his surprise, it didn’t sound human at all. The noise was all wounded animal. That was when bones started breaking, snapping and realigning. He watched in horror as his the shape of his hands changed and started growing thick sandy fur.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to wake up. But all that he could get out was a growl that turned into a muffled howl. He shut his eyes to what was happening to him. The human side retreated to the dark and he welcomed the black.

******

Bob woke up on his living room floor the next day surrounded by remnants of cotton batting and shreds of his sweatpants and thought, “Fuck. I’m a werewolf and I really need to stop waking up naked.” It was the most insane conclusion. It was impossible. It was ridiculous. He couldn’t believe it. But he’d been there for that whole turning into a wolf thing last night and then retreated into his head like a coward to avoid the whole thing. He could have seriously hurt something last night, hurt something or someone that was more than the throw pillows on his couch.

Shit like this wasn’t supposed to happen in California. Chicago, sure. Especially when the season was right. But not here. Not in the land of sun and summer. Besides, getting turned into a werewolf was not something that happened to _him._ He was too practical. Too cautious. Touring with The Used, the crazy vampire fucks they were, taught him to be even more careful. This was the definition of insanity and it was all too fucking much and holy shit he might be hyperventilating.

He parked his ass on the fluff-covered couch and put his head between his knees and just tried to breathe. Just stop fucking thinking for a minute. Take air in and let it back out. In and out. It took forever for Bob to stop feeling like he was going to pass back out.

When he felt like he wouldn’t immediately topple over, he stood and methodically went about taking a long, hot shower, finding clothes for the day, soon followed by starting to clean. He hadn’t made it very far and hadn’t been doing a very good job of not freaking out when Mikeyway opened his apartment door, midsentence.

“Bob, I get needing a 24 hour period to recover from a Gabe Saporta party, but not answering anyone’s calls at all in two days is kind of ridiculous,” Mikey cut himself off with a shocked look at Bob’s living room. “Bob, dude, what the shit?” Mikey asked, concerned. “Did you get robbed? Hey, man, it’s okay to be freaked.” And then Mikey stopped on his approach to touch Bob and tilted his head and his mouth formed a little ‘o’.

“Fuck, Bob, I’m so sorry.” He said and then reached out his hand and tilted his head just slightly.

Bob stared blankly at him, because what the actual shit? What did Mikey want him to do? It was like he was pretending to be some monarch, extending his sigil ring to be kissed, or something. “Um?” Bob managed. Couldn’t Mikey see that he was a little preoccupied freaking out while not freaking out and everything? And he was so on edge he was afraid he’d shatter and never be able to reassemble himself?

“Go on,” Mikey gave his hand the slightest shake. “Smell it. That way you know me and your wolf knows me.” Mikey’s face was soft and encouraging.

“This is insane, of course you know about werewolves.” Bob muttered, wiping a hand down his face.

“Said the werewolf.” The corner of Mikey’s mouth turned up slightly, but he looked calm and patient. “And I don’t know much. Just the basics.”

Bob wanted to sigh, or run, or wake up. Instead he eased forward, careful not to spook himself or Mikey, he then took Mikey’s hand and held it up to his nose for a tentative whiff, thinking that would be the end of it, smelling peppermint-coffee- _Mikey_ -musty-pack-Gerard-brother-catfurchase-spice and the next thing he knew, he’d sniffed up Mikey’s arm and was sniffing Mikey’s neck as Mikey giggled. _Fucking weird_.

Bob made himself stop and stand back up, dropping Mikey’s hand.

“Uh.” He said. “Well shit.”

“Yeah.” Mikey agreed and then gave him a bone-crushing hug. Fucking Ways. Bob relaxed into it, though. It actually helped a little, and he felt like he could actually breathe now. Mikey squeezed a little more.

“So,” Mikey said, letting Bob go and making his way to the kitchenette and busying himself making coffee, then pulling out his phone and clacking away at a few keys. “Werewolf.”

“Fuck, saying it more will _not_ make it less weird,” Bob groaned, rubbing his face and resting his elbows on the breakfast bar.

Mikey shrugged, a little bit of a smirk tucked into the corner of his mouth, “Probably not.”

Bob sighed and put his head down on the counter. The coolness felt good against his forehead. He seemed to be running hot, feverish. He wondered if it were a side-effect of being a motherfucking werewolf now.

“So do you want me to help clean this place up? There isn’t another moon night, so you don’t have that to worry about.” Mikey offered.

“You’d help me... clean.” Bob lifted an eyebrow and frowned at Mikey. Did he have to make this day weirder?

“Just because you haven’t seen it doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened,” Mikey frowned a little, or at the least the corner of his mouth turned down ever so slightly.

“Alicia totally makes you tidy up, doesn’t she?” Bob asked, completely amused. Neither of the Ways had ever been the cleanest dudes, but Bob supposed they could pick up a few new tricks.

“And Frank was a scarily organized roommate back in the day. We had schedules. That involved vacuuming.” Mikey said very seriously.

“We did,” Frank agreed, coming through the door.

Bob froze. Something about Frank’s scent, even across the room, made his hackles rise. Made him want to show his belly or growl or both, but in reverse order.

“Bob?” Frank made it a question, brow furrowing. “Bob, are you growling? And what the fuck happened here?”

Mikey’s eyebrows shot up his forehead. “Huh.”

“What huh?” Bob asked, forcing himself to stop growling and not taking his eyes off Frank even though he really wanted to look at Mikey, incredulous, but his wolf wasn’t letting him.

“Frank, Bob’s a werewolf now,” Mikey explained.

“Werewolf?” Frank blinked owlishly. “Holy shit.” Frank made a move to come toward Bob but stopped when Bob growled. “Hey,” Frank said quietly with his hand outstretched and started easing forward once more. Of course Frank had zero self-preservation like that. Approaching anything growling would always be Frank’s foolish, feet first approach.

Bob made himself be still until Frank was almost within touching distance, then he just couldn’t. He pressed into Frank’s space, sniffing his neck and down his chest, tucking his nose into an armpit. Frank smelled fantastic and like everything Bob wanted, surprised and elated and spicy.

He growled deep in his throat and brought his head up, nose brushing Frank’s cheek. Frank’s hand was clenched in Bob’s t shirt, bunching the fabric tight across his chest. Frank nosed back at Bob’s face, a smile tucked into the corners of his eyes, his pupils dark.

“Bob,” Frank said firmly, licking his lips.

Bob paused and growled low in his throat again.

“Bob,” Frank repeated, his voice almost stony, a tone Bob had never heard from him. No. Hardly ever. Wait.

Too many things were going on in his head. Frank smelled too good. He felt good. He sounded like he had the first time Bob saw him with a puppy, and what the fuck did that even mean? Bob stopped growling, stopped moving completely, practically holding his breath. Frank did smile then. Then he leaned up and kissed Bob, hard and wet and dirty, practically shoving his tongue down Bob’s throat, and moaning when he reciprocated. It bore a striking resemblance to Bob’s wet dreams on the subject. Frank’s lips pulled back and Bob whimpered. Frank gave one last sweet kiss that felt like he was saying _Finally_.

“Shit,” Bob mumbled against Frank’s cheek. He was breathing hard like he’d run a marathon and his dick was half hard and something was making happy little circles in his head, fur brushing against his insides, wanting to show Frank his belly like Frank was god or something, wanting more than Bob ever let himself want. Something. Wolf. “Jesus.” Bob shook his head.

“Yeah,” Frank said, his hand cupping Bob’s cheek, but he was smiling. Bob had no idea what his own face was doing. It was probably encouraging, if the way Frank’s smile widened was anything to go on.

“Well,” Mikey said, sitting his mug down and walking quickly toward the door. “I’m just gonna.” He nodded and pointedly closed the door behind him with a click that snapped Bob out of it. He scrambled back and stumbled onto his mess of a couch with a little “Oof” of air.

Frank frowned at him.

“What are you doing? What am I doing? Just-- shit,” Bob gestured wildly and then crossed his arms so they didn’t do something else traitorous, like grab Frank and drag him back to his bedroom.

“Kissing,” Frank answered helpfully, smiling at Bob like he was being unreasonable. “We were kissing, and then maybe something else, when you’re done freaking the fuck out.” Frank looked hopeful and patient and like Bob had shown him that Christmas was early this year but he could wait for presents, probably.

“But you’re married,” Bob protested. “And you’re gonna have babies in five months. Jamia could totally take my balls for this. _Should_ totally take my balls for this.” That might be reassuring, actually. If Jamia killed him, he wouldn’t have to do with any of this wolf shit.

“She’s okay with it. She knows I’ve kind of been stupid for you forever,” Frank said, smirking and moving slowly forward.

“I thought you were only stupid for Gerard,” Bob said, frowning and holding himself a little tighter. His stomach clenched. His wrists hurt. His upper arms hurt.  
.  
“Everyone’s a little stupid for Gerard,” Frank gave a rueful smile and changed his posture, put his arms down by his sides and kept moving forward. It was making Bob edgy. His arms hurt. “But no, it’s not the same kind of stupid--Bob?” Frank broke off, stopping, finally stopping, finally getting a clue, finally stepping back. “Bob. Tell me you’re okay, Bob.”

Bob was bent over, his stomach cramping. He’d finally uncrossed his arms to clutch at his stomach, and everything was bad, everything was weird, nothing made sense to him. Everything was making sense to a dark and simple presence in his head that wasn’t him and he smelled blood and it was his, little dots of it in the skin of his arms where claws had dug in. His. His. His claws. His blood. His arms. His voice caught up in a piercing whine.

And he was on the floor and everything hurt less, everything felt easier, and Frank was on top of him, holding his wrists, tight and warm and secure as his favorite splinted braces, smelling so good, holding him down, and the thing in his head and he were the same and they were content. Somehow, he was content.

“The fuck.” Bob’s voice was raspy from doing things that it wasn’t supposed to.

“No fucking clue, sorry.” Frank looked as out of it as Bob felt, but gave a shaky smile. “But neither of us is dead or furry, so I’m calling it a win.”

“I don’t. Mikey said there wasn’t a moon.” Bob just looked up at Frank holding his wrists down, and hey, that was pretty hot. Bob batted the thought aside and tried to remember what breathing was like instead of panting and snuffling.

“I think... you had, like, a leftover-wolf-breakthrough-attack-thing?” Frank’s brow was furrowed. “And um, I helped? Maybe? Or caused it? I don’t even know. Shit. Sorry?”

“Frank.” Bob grated out, trying to think of something to say besides ‘can we fuck now,’ trying to remember what had set him off, trying to keep his hands from growing claws again, anything.

“Bobert.” Frank said it placidly, with a little acknowledging nod, and the stupid nickname brought Bob back a little more.

“Frank,” Bob let out a frustrated sigh. “You can’t just dangle this carrot in front of me. You have to mean this. Because I can’t do this if you don’t mean it and if you’re lying about Jamia being okay with this whatever-this-is-gonna-be, because I’ve got no idea now. I’m feeling a little crazy. I just got turned into a motherfucking werewolf and I’m fighting everything right now not to fuck you or run the fuck away. And. Weirder shit.”

Frank leaned down, hands still tight on Bob’s wrists, and kissed him, deep and quiet and sincere, shifting his hips just enough so Bob could feel how interested Frank’s dick was against Bob’s thigh. When he pulled away, Bob bit back a whimper.

“I mean it. Jamia means it. We’ll deal with whatever,” Frank said, making it simple, and waiting.

“Fuckit,” Bob muttered and started kissing Frank, nibbling on his bottom lip, and Frank moaned into it. He pawed at Frank’s shirts, giving a frustrated little growl at the layers keeping him from skin. Frank’s hands weren’t being very helpful either, wrapping themselves around the back of Bob’s neck and threading through his hair.

Bob’s hands made their way down to Frank’s ass, squeezing. Frank squawked in surprise, then giggled. “Yeah, okay,” Frank shimmied back on the couch and pulled off his three shirts in one smooth move. “I get what you’re trying to say here,” Frank leaned down and stole another kiss, then tugged Bob up by his shirt.

“Fucking finally,” Bob said, tugging off his t shirt as Frank took him by the hand and led him to his bedroom, stopping at the edge of the bed. The comforter was mostly on the floor and the sheets were askew where Bob had slept on top of them and then not tidied everything back up this afternoon.

Bob started to grab the waistband of his sweatpants and slide them off but Frank stopped him.

“Wait,” Frank said, hands stilling Bob’s, Frank’s tattooed fingers taking the elastic and sliding the pants down. Bob hadn’t bothered with underwear when he got dressed earlier. He’d been freaking out too much to focus on something so mundane and was kind of grateful for having not. His cock was hard and curling up toward his navel. “Gorgeous,” Frank breathed, air teasing against the skin of Bob’s thighs. Bob tried not to tremble or push forward to get Frank to just fucking touch him already.

Frank smirked, down there on his knees like he knew just how much he was driving Bob crazy. He stood and Bob growled.

“Get on your knees on the bed,” Frank said.

“Frank, I want this, but, it’s been awhile and,” Bob was totally blushing. This was ridiculous.

“Hey,” Frank said, quietly, hand giving Bob’s arm a squeeze. “Trust me. I’m not rushing anything here. This is just the first act. There’s something I really want to do.”

“You’re filthy.” Bob observed. He was pretty sure he knew what Frank wanted to do.

“Well, yeah.” Frank smiled and it was wicked, full of promise while being reassuring. The little fucker was impossible.

Something hot settled into his belly. Anticipation, he noted. His wolf seemed to be eager to get on his knees for Frank, the horny tag-along.

“Fine,” Bob muttered and crawled onto his bed. He knew Frank was beaming and fighting the urge to do a little victory dance.

“C’mon,” Frank’s hand ghosted against Bob’s inner thigh, encouraging him to spread. Bob scooted a little wider. Frank’s hand came up, fingers trailing up as his other reached forward, his fingers slick—and where did Frank get lube—as his ran a finger along Bob’s taint and then fondled Bob’s balls. Bob bucked a little, wanting Frank to fucking do something.

“Stop teasing,” Bob groaned.

“Oh,” Frank purred, his face very close to Bob’s ass. “I’ll fuckin’ show you teasing.” Bob could feel his breath, warm and way too intimate and still not close enough.

Frank’s hand moved from Bob’s balls and came up to spread Bob’s ass with his other hand, thumbs pulling at the top of his thighs. He licked a long swipe from the top of Bob’s asscrack down to his hole and just stayed there. Licking. Bob made a choked off noise, half-squeak, half-moan. Frank kept going, giving a satisfied hum that vibrated against his sensitive hole. Frank teased around the ring of muscle with his tongue and Bob lost all sense of coherent thought.

“Jesus fuck, _Frankie_ ,” Bob moaned, thighs trembling.

Frank hummed, tongue licking a little deeper, working the rim. That vibration made Bob moan again and his fingers fought for purchase, wrapping in the sheets. Frank gave a final swipe and pulled his face away to rest against Bob’s ass, the stubble of his cheek tickling. He bit the skin there, playfully. “How’s that for teasing?”

“Oh, you are completely fucking evil,” Bob moaned.

“You say the sweetest things,” Frank said and stood. He shucked out of his pants, tossing a bottle of lube and a condom on the bed beside Bob. “But I bet I can say sweeter.”

“Oh yeah?” Bob asked, and he was proud that he’d been able to make it sound like a challenge, make himself sound like he wasn’t a hairsbreadth away from coming his brains out.

“Yeah,” Frank slid a lube-slick finger into Bob’s ass, quickly tucking in another alongside it. Bob groaned. “Do you want me to fuck you like this? On your knees? Or do you want to be belly-up for it?”

“Shit,” Bob moaned. “Fuck,” Bob tried to breathe. Frank was scissoring easily now, then he slid his fingers out, added more lube and tucked in three. “Shit. I,” Bob moaned when Frank’s clever fingers hit him right. “I want to see you. Fuck. Let me see you.”

“I was,” Frank breathed, sounding really fucking turned on, “hoping you’d say that.” Frank eased his fingers away, fiddling instead with the condom and lube. “Now c’mon and turn over.”

Bob shifted, turning over onto his back, and wound up with his calves pretty much resting on Frank’s shoulders. Not a usual position for him, but Frank fucking beamed at him, his eyes dark as he rolled on the condom and slicked up with lube, and Bob stopped feeling weird, looking at him. His face was flushed and there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and Bob wanted Frank to kiss him. He wanted to lick that sweat and taste it, and he didn’t know if that was what the wolf wanted or what he did.

“C’mon,” Bob urged, trying to ignore everything but the moment. “Fuck me already.”

“Fuck yes,” Frank nodded, lining up and goddamn if he didn’t take forever pushing in, making Bob fucking _squirm_. He could feel every inch, no, every centimeter, Frank’s hips shimmying, little thrusts until his balls were flush with Bob’s ass.

“Shit.” Bob moaned, trying to concentrate on being still, on trying to figure out how he could get some leverage. “Move. Fucking move now, Frank.”

“Fuck,” Frank panted with his face nearly surprised, his smile soft then turning wicked. “Oh, you want me to move?” The fucker lifted an eyebrow.

“Yes, Frankie,” Bob panted, and reached up a hand to tug on a strand of Frank’s hair as it hung down over his face. God, he looked good. “Move or I’ll fuckin’ kill you.”

“Will it be a little death?” Frank joked, then moaned when Bob clenched his ass. “Okay, okay. Fine.”

He slid nearly all the way out, but didn’t make Bob wait. He pushed back in right away, nearly as slow, and started to build up a rhythm. It wasn’t long until Frank’s hips were pumping fast and erratic, and it was like sparks flashed in front of Bob’s vision every time Frank hit him just right.

Bob reached for his dick and started jerking himself off in time to Frank’s thrusts, both of them panting hungrily.

“Oh shit Bob, _shit_ ” Frank grunted.

“Fuck,” Bob moaned, coming all over his hand and his belly, his ass clenching around Frank’s dick.

“Fucking _cheater_ , Christ, you feel so good,” Frank moaned, giving a couple more desperate thrusts and coming, his hands holding tight to Bob’s thighs. Frank panted, his head resting on Bob’s shin. When he’d caught his breath, Frank pulled out with a sympathetic wince to Bob’s grunt, and eased Bob’s legs down onto the bed.

“You started it,” Bob groaned, which turned to a helpless, surprised sort of sound when Frank trailed his finger through Bob’s come and then stuck it into his mouth, sucking.

“Yeah I did,” Frank said, not looking apologetic in the least. Smug, actually. “I was even thinking of starting round two.”

“Of course you were,” Bob said, trying for serious but not quite able to keep the smile off of his face. Frank simply beamed at him.

******

Aside from things mostly falling into place with Frank and the time he spent talking with Jamia on the phone, Bob felt like he was going insane. He really needed to get a handle on this wolf shit, but there was a surprising lack of werewolves in the friend circle. The few Pete knew, he wasn’t on speaking terms with. And Google was not Bob’s friend. Mikey reminded him that Google was no one’s friend.

Maybe the problem was Bob’s anger. He couldn’t even put his finger on what he was mad about most of the time, if at all. He couldn’t tell if it was strictly wolf related or something else. Something band related.

But he wasn’t thinking about it yet, aside from youtubing meditation techniques and turning over every lore-covered rock he could find on the internet and at the library. He was getting really good at scanning shitty werewolf novels. He just had to remember to breathe.

The thing about getting turned into a werewolf, Bob decided after his first moon, was that it should really come with an instruction manual, especially if managing his temper was anything to take into account. Not to mention the scary sex things, like finding out about the knot.

See, Bob had been having one of those lazy Sundays. The kind where he kept himself and his short temper at home and jerked off twice and he was still completely horny as hell. It didn’t help that Frank was all the way back in Jersey, and that was fine. Jamia needed Frank. Bob got that. And the phone sex hadn’t hurt, either. He was already half hard at just the thought of Frank’s tongue.

Bob thought back to some of the highlights of last night’s late call with Frank and reached his hand back down into his ratty sweatpants to palm his dick when he stopped, hand frozen around the shaft. There was a... growth or something there, a third of the way down from the tip. The band went all the way around his dick.

Cancer was his first and immediate thought. That he had some sort of stealth cancer and now, on top of being a werewolf, his dick was going to fall off, and yes, he was panicking.

He made himself take a deep breath. Then he stuck his hand back down his pants, fingers closing loosely around the shaft. Moving his fingers up just past the ridge of skin, he squeezed and groaned, thighs trembling. He let go, panting for breath. Stars danced around his eyes, and he thought he might come.

“Not a stealth cancer,” he figured, muttering to himself, “but a weird sex thing. Fucking _great._ I definitely need some weird sex things to even out all the other weird shit.”

He decided to add more research about actual wolves to his reading list, and to try to avoid any conversations about it with Frank, forever, if at all possible.

******

Bob figured things would have probably been okay if Gerard hadn’t come back from the desert with the idea of scrapping the entire album.

“We hafta pitch it,” Gerard declared, his Jersey accent grating in a way that Frank’s somehow never was anymore.

“That’s bullshit,” Bob growled. He knew he needed to tone it down, but he just couldn’t quell his temper. Couldn’t deal with Gerard and his big ideas this time. Didn’t they learn about concept albums last time with all that Paramour, cancer, and mind-losing shit? “It’s solid. Solid is enough.”

Mikey’s jaw clenched ever so slightly.

“No, it’s fucking not,” Gerard waved his hands widely. “It’s got no soul. It’s completely uninspired. It’s bland and dull and pointless. It isn’t art.”

“Gerard, we’ve worked hard on it,” Ray countered, catching Bob’s eyes and trying to break the argument.

“Hard work doesn’t translate as passion,” Gerard argued. “We can do better. We’ve _already_ done better. Three of the maybe-tracks we already threw out because they didn’t fit were better, and we knew it, and we went for this shit anyway, and we can do better.”

“C’mon man,” Frank said and Bob couldn’t be sure just whose side he was on in that moment. Bob was trying not to think about it. Trying not to think about how sure he was that Frank was with Gerard on this one, like Frank would always be, creatively, and Bob wouldn’t be hurt by that. Trying not to think about how much he just wanted to get into Gerard’s face. “Let’s talk about the insanity of this first before we get to passion. I mean, it needs something.”

“The fuck it doesn’t,” Bob said taking a step forward, fists clenched, right in Gerard’s face.

Gerard gave Bob a little shove and Bob punched the wall beside Gerard’s head, the sound of it a dull thud because of the sound-proofing. The little ripple of shock up his arm did nothing to quench the sudden fierce bloodlust that bubbled up from almost nowhere. He wanted to bite and growl and sink his teeth into the back of Gerard’s neck. He wanted Gerard to show Bob his belly and to back the fuck down, literally, back away. And a small terrified part of Bob, the part that Bob thought must be the rational human part of him, was screaming how wrong this all was. _What did he think he was doing? Just stopstopstop._

But he was tired of butting heads with Gerard and his wrists hurt and the punch to the wall didn’t help shit. Nor did the surprise spike of underlying fear in response to Gerard’s tart angry scent. It smelled good, and that was fucking freaky, and he was tired of being freaked out by shit like that. Even more, he was tired of the wolf in his head growling and whining about what he was thinking about doing. His wolf hated the idea, thought it was giving up dominance, but he knew he would do it in a heartbeat, if Gerard would just fucking say it.

“If you don’t want that, then there’s the fucking door,” Gerard pointed, final, scent redhot and unwavering.

Bob fucking left, not even pausing at Ray hollering at him, barely noticing how he switched to promptly yelling at Gerard as soon as Bob got out the door.

******

Bob didn’t go back to his apartment. He figured that would be the first place Ray would look when he came to talk to Bob. Ray would want to reason with Bob, and Bob was in no shape to be reasoned with. He didn’t even know if he wanted to be. He loved them, sure. They were his brothers, but maybe it was time for him to just deal with his own shit. He’d at least have to get enough of a handle on himself before tonight. It was the night before the full moon and his first night of being furry for the month. The timing was just great on this one.

But he probably wouldn’t have done something so rash, if he hadn’t ended up at Patrick’s. Bob just hadn’t wanted to go home yet. He maybe thought that if he could talk to someone rational or at least someone who got moody, artistic fucks.

Patrick of course tried to fix things, because that was just how Patrick worked. But Bob’s nerves were frayed, and he was still so angry.

“Patrick. Just. Stop, okay. Just,” Bob said, his voice so on edge even to his ears. He was painfully aware how easy it would be just to shove Patrick. How it would be nothing at all to send him skidding into the wall. Or lick him. And having Patrick smelling so aggravated and looking so concerned and flustered with this flush to his cheeks. It was too much. Especially with the memory of how Patrick tasted, right there, so close, and the moon just hours away, and something furry in Bob’s head whining for pack. “I can’t right now. I really can’t. Just leave me the fuck alone.”

Patrick dug in his heels and reached out. Never one to be pushed. Bob could blame or thank Pete for that. Patrick didn’t back down to moody fucks. He’d always reach. And he was worried about Bob. Bob could smell that, too. Patrick was just doing what he was designed to do, fix things. But this was metaphysical bullshit and Bob was pretty sure that Patrick was flying even blinder than he was here.

“Don’t,” Bob jerked back. He didn’t know what he’d do if Patrick touched him. He didn’t know if he’d fight or try to fuck him. The moon was just too close. He was losing his goddamn mind. Or maybe he’d already fucking lost it.

And Patrick smelled so scared, fear tinged with defiance, a bitter and intoxicating smell mixed with sourness. Bob wanted to pin Patrick down and bury his nose in that fear smell and listen as Patrick’s heart raced and lick him everywhere he smelled like that.

Patrick did touch Bob then, despite his fear, and Bob gave him a shove, not enough to do any more than push Patrick back down onto the couch and away from him. But, Patrick looked so _startled_.

“Shit,” Bob muttered, and forced himself out of Patrick’s apartment, the voice in his head whining and growling all the way.

He got into his car, agitated at himself and a lot scared, and drove until he just stopped thinking. Drove deeper into LA until he wasn’t sure where he was anymore. Until he lost track of time. He realized what a colossal fuckup he’d made.

When he noticed that it wasn’t as bright as it had been. As a matter of fact, the sun was setting, and Bob didn’t have a clue where the fuck he was, and didn’t know how he’d been so stupid as to let the time get away from him.

If he’d been smart and let his human mind drive, he should have ended up closer to his friend’s place in West Hollywood, but it was too late now. He’d just have to improvise. Well, if “improvisation” meant “driving into a deserted fenced-in parking lot and locking his doors and hoping he stayed present enough with his wolf this time to keep himself from somehow getting out of the car.”

Fuck. He really hoped he could stay in his car. He rolled the windows down just enough to maybe placate the wolf into being content in the car--like a little dog when mommy went into the store, for fuck’s sake. Fuck. This was so fucking stupid. Shit. But wait. He caught a whiff of something on the breeze. He tilted his head, trying to place it. It was so familiar and set the hairs on the back of his neck on edge and he had no idea why.

He barely had enough time to shimmy out of his clothes and hit the door locks before the first cramp hit and the space seemed too small all at once. He should have gotten out and crawled into the backseat, he wildly thought, and then the pain was too much, and he blacked out.

*******

_Muzzle pushing up the door lock button. Teeth fighting the door handle. Paws on pavement. Running running running._ Chase. Stalk. Find. Pounce. _Biting. Tearing. Blood hot-copper-salt._

Bob jerked awake and groaned, instantly regretting waking up. He didn’t want to open his eyes because he knew those had to be memories—memories of him attacking someone. He couldn’t remember any of the finer details. He just knew that he had. That he had followed this guy and that his wolf was happy about it.

He wanted to throw up. He thought that he might. He thought that he should at least not be lying down if he did, because choking on his own vomit naked in an alley in LA next to last night’s prey would just be the perfect cherry on top of this shit sundae.

He smelled blood and fought down the urge to panic. He made himself open his eyes.

Across from him, he saw his car. Just a few feet away. The smell of blood was behind him.

Bob stiffly got up, purposely not looking behind him. He’d look in a minute. He’d look when he wasn’t so naked. He’d look when he was sure he wouldn’t throw up. Maybe he’d never look.

He mechanically opened the passenger door that he’d unlocked last night with his nose, because he was too clever for his own good. Or maybe his wolf was a vigilante when left out in the open. Probably not, but it was a thought. Bob pulled on his underwear and pants, quickly pulling his t-shirt over his head. His socks were a lost cause, so he slid his Converse back on without them. He closed the door and took a breath, steeling himself, but only smelled more blood and something a little sweeter. Bob tried not to think about it, and started breathing through his mouth instead.

When Bob turned around, there was a guy lying on the asphalt of the parking lot with blood coming from his throat, the flesh of his neck jagged and rough, claw marks trailing down his chest. There was blood caking in his light brown hair.

Bob swallowed back bile, frozen in place. In the distance he could hear sirens and felt, with dead certainty, that they were coming for him. Deep down, he was afraid that they should be. No, he _knew_ that they should be and he didn’t know what the fuck to do about any of that. He stared, zoning out in the direction of the... body. The cold clenching in his stomach kept him rooted on the spot. He would call 911 and run if the sirens weren’t getting closer. He could hear them getting closer, hear them in a way that he’d never noticed before. And then he heard something else. A wheeze. He forced his eyes to refocus on the man’s chest.

“Move,” Bob whispered, too freaked out to even hope he’d heard what he thought he’d heard. “Move.”

Bob didn’t blink. His eyes watered until he saw it, the barest rise and fall. He was still frozen there when the first police officers got there a few seconds later, snapping out of it to get on his knees when they told him to.

“He’s alive,” Bob croaked in the direction of a pair of knees. And then he shut up. He didn’t say a word when they handcuffed him and put him unceremoniously into the back of a cruiser. Didn’t say anything when he saw the EMTs put the guy on a stretcher. Didn’t say anything when a redheaded male detective gave him a thoughtful look, then tapped the top of the car with his hand, and the cruiser pulled away.

Bob still hadn’t said anything, hadn’t even asked for a phone call when he was escorted into the station and walked into an interrogation room and left to sit at a metal table in a metal chair in a room with concrete walls. At least, he was pretty sure it was an interrogation room. Maybe it was just for interviews. Even still, there was a stink of nervous-sweet-sour-fear to the room. He was pretty sure things never went well for anyone who made it to this room.

The officer uncuffed him before he left, and Bob was left trying to massage the pinched feeling out of his wrists for lack of anything better to do.

After a little while, the door opened and that redhead detective walked in.

“Hi there,” the redhead said. “Detective Charlie Crews.”

“Hi,” Bob said, a little taken aback. This detective was just a little bit more cheerful than Bob had been expecting. He didn’t know how he felt about it. Detective Crews smelled like citrus and something sweet and soft and friendly. “Bob.” Bob said despite himself. “Bob Bryar.”

“Nice to meetcha, Bob,” Crews smiled and he smelled genuine, like he meant it.

Bob felt the corner of his mouth upturn without his permission.

“Well, I guess I should say thanks,” Crews said. “We’ve been trying to catch that guy for weeks.”

“I’m sorry?” The dread was back in Bob’s stomach, that certainty that he was screwed and completely found out. Because this guy knew that he’d attacked the guy. Crews knew what he was. Bob was going to be locked up somewhere that he’d never see the light of day again. “Is he alive?”

“Alive.” The detective confirmed. “Granted, he was mauled pretty bad. But sometimes, these things happen. He was violent and a rapist. Possibly also a dealer.” Crews waved a hand. “But, see, there’s nothing actually connecting you to this crime. And I gather you have no memory of how you got there.”

Bob just stared at him. How did he even know?

“I mean, for all intents and purposes, it looks like a bad guy was attacked by a big dog. Sometimes, if you’re bad enough, something bad happens to you. So, case closed. All we have to do is book him when he comes back round from the anaesthetic.”

“So, that means I can go?” Bob asked.

“Basically, yeah,” Crews smiled. It was an endearing sort of smile. There were freckles all along Crews’s cheekbones and nose. Bob gave himself a little shake.

“That’s good,” Bob said. He sounded a little despondent to his own ears.

Crews frowned a little. “Look, your car’s in lockup. Let me give you a ride there?” Crews smelled bright, almost hopeful. Bob nodded and found himself following Crews out of the precinct.

Crews led him to a Maserati with bullet holes in it, and Bob paused.

“Those are merely aesthetic,” Charlie said, waving a hand.

“Why are you driving around a really expensive car with bullet holes, Detective Crews?” Bob asked, wondering if there was a nearby payphone that could put him in touch with a cab company.

“Well, a guy made me shoot it. He was another one of those bad guys,” Crews shrugged. “It’s just a car. I’m not attached to it.”

“Right,” Bob said and felt like maybe there was a chance he was dealing with a crazy person. But Crews had been the first person--the first stranger that knew what he was. Maybe Crews could help him, or at least knew someone who could help. Bob chewed on his lip, considering.

“Bob, you look like someone who could use a mango, or at least a whole lot of bacon and coffee,” Crews said, very seriously.

“Wait, what?” Bob blinked. This detective didn’t seem to make a lot of slow, logical conversational segues.

“You look a little pale,” Crews observed. “And last night was the first night of the moon cycle, and you probably missed breakfast, what with the whole getting arrested this morning thing. So, bacon and coffee. My treat. We’ll get your car in a bit, but you should probably eat first.”

Bob didn’t know how he felt about being mother-henned by a dude he just met, and a detective at that. A detective who knew about werewolves. Bob did the only logical thing he could think of. He said, “Right. I bet you know a place.”

Charlie Crews flashed a blinding smile at Bob. “Well, yeah.”

 

******

Bob ate a lot of bacon. A lot. And some toast and eggs over easy and hash browns, and drank a lot of coffee while Crews ate three mangoes. Crews had apparently been very serious about the fruit.

“So,” Charlie said, once Bob had pushed his plate away and stretched.

Bob frowned at Charlie. He had a feeling that Crews wanted to talk now. That’s what Bob got for agreeing to breakfast. That was bribery bacon; he’d seen it before. Ray was not above bribery bacon either. Ray’s bribery bacon was arguably better, but didn’t come in quantities larger than a pound, and Bob suspected he’d just eaten somewhere around an entire pig’s worth.

“So,” Bob echoed.

Charlie pushed his own empty plate aside and leaned forward on his elbows. “How long have you been a werewolf?” Charlie asked wryly.

“Two months,” Bob answered.

“That’s not long,” Charlie said, “Or maybe it’s forever.”

“I’m leaning toward the ‘forever’ side,” Bob admitted, then took a breath and looked away. “And how it’s not been long enough to have any sort of control of everything.”

“What sort of everything?” Charlie asked.

“I’m so angry and I’m not sure if it’s just wolf stuff or if I’m done with my band,” Bob said.

“I thought you looked familiar,” Charlie said, smiling a little.

Bob looked back, frowning.

“But you don’t like being familiar,” Charlie figured, giving a little nod. “No problem. It’s okay to be... not okay. But anger ruins joy. Maybe you’ve just let the anger push away the joy. You’ll find it again. Maybe you just need to go looking.”

“I was thinking of leaving,” Bob said. He wasn’t just thinking. He was pretty sure that he was gone. He just needed to get back to his apartment and throw a few things in a suitcase and drive until he couldn’t anymore. He had no idea where. It didn’t matter. Maybe somewhere with fields and no people and little furry things he could chase with impunity, but that’d be a bonus. He just needed to go.

“Sometimes it’s all about the journey. You’ll find yourself, maybe even when you stop looking,” Charlie said. He was wearing that endearing smile again.

Bob lifted an eyebrow. “What?”

“I have some CDs you might be interested in. Help you find your center. Or well, maybe stop being so angry. They’ve helped me to not be so angry.” Charlie said.

“What do you have to be angry about?” Bob asked.

“A lot,” Charlie said, and all at once he smelled so sad that Bob wanted to lick him. “But we’ll get to that. So, I guess you’ll need your car.”

“Yeah,” Bob agreed and it felt like he was already saying goodbye to California.

*******

Bob decided that was it. He just couldn’t be around any of his friends. It was too much of a risk. He had attacked another human being. Granted, that person was apparently scum. It was just. He couldn’t figure this shit out with them. He was too fucked up and angry. He just needed to get away from them.

Packing in the early morning after the full moon, getting in his car, and just driving off into the sunrise was probably the cowardly thing to do, but he didn’t give a shit. He was too terrified and bitter and betrayed. He shoved it down, tucking it underneath the protesting, unsettled whining of the wolf in his head telling him that this was wrong. That they couldn’t leave the pack.

Bob made it as far as Interstate 15 on his way out of town, 43 miles from Barstow, when he had to pull over on the shoulder and curl into a ball and shake. It was like that feeling he got when Frank left, only so much worse. He could only whimper, huddled into himself as much as he could manage around the steering wheel, stomach aching and barely able to breathe more than sips of air.

He dug around in his bag, looking for he didn’t know what, familiar scents wafting around the car stirring in the air until he found a t shirt that he didn’t remember packing. One of Frank’s. He buried his face in it and just inhaled, trying to calm his wolf and himself. He was pathetic, and an idiot, and he should turn the car around right the fuck now.

When he’d stopped shaking, he started the car up again and pulled back onto the road and kept heading east. He drove until the sun was high in the sky and kept driving even as his cell phone started to ring. He kept driving well into the desert until he was too tired to stand it and pulled over at an abandoned rest area, not able to stomach the idea of a night in a motel room. His wolf didn’t try to leave the car and wander the desert this time. Just accepted defeat and exhaustion and curled up in the backseat and let Bob rest.

The first voicemail was from Mikey. “Bob,” he said and then gave a sigh. “Bob, Ray is going to be disappointed.” Another breath, this one thoughtful. “I’m a little disappointed too, but I get it. Just. Call, okay. Call a lot.”

“I get running away from yourself,” Gerard said, second voicemail, starting mid-thought. Jesus, it was so fucking _Gerard_. “But you didn’t clean your fridge out. That’s totally not like you. But okay. I’m an asshole. But I meant it about the art and I’m sorry I told you to go,” Gerard said in a rush, then continued. “Stuff. You want to get stuff straight in your head. Sometimes that takes a while. And you could have done that here. I’m sorry if it was because of me that you thought you couldn’t do it here. Just.” Quick intake of breath. “This might break Frank’s heart if you don’t come back. So you just have to come back, okay.”

The third voicemail was from Ray. “You’re still ours and we’re yours. Don’t run away. Let us help. We’re your pack,” And that was just a kick in the teeth. That was playing dirty pool. And it was almost enough to make Bob just fucking stop, because Ray only ever said shit that he meant. And fuck, Bob really wanted to stay, but he couldn’t live with himself if he’d hurt one of them. Of course Ray followed that with, “You stupid, self-sacrificing bastard, you better take care of yourself, since you won’t let any of us. Just,” Ray cut himself off and Bob could just see him pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to calm himself down. “Just take care of yourself and if you’re afraid you’ll stop, fucking call me. Don’t wait for it to get so bad that I have to come find you half dead in a ditch somewhere or I’ll kill you or something. Just…. Damnit, Bob.”

Frank, Bob was pretty sure, went from concerned, to frantic, to pissed-the-fuck off, to probably completely shut-off, not that Bob had been able to bring himself to listen to those messages. He couldn’t, not yet. He was afraid one of them was Frank ordering him to come home, and if Bob heard that, he’d do it, Frank was alpha somehow, and just fuck pack hierarchy for a minute. He spent the first 30 years of his life without all this pack shit and even if his wolf was whining in his head for all of them, he was still a person. A person who had free will and would not abide by this shit, if he could fucking help it, even if it felt like he was splitting himself in two. Even if he couldn’t tell if it was simply because he shared brain and heart space with this wolf, or because he was leaving his family.

Bob was going to figure his own shit out and find a place to land. He’d find a way to cope with this, and would somehow be okay if that meant he never got to drum again or have a pack. He’d just be a lone wolf. Besides, being in that band had felt like it sometimes. Those four were always so very... them. They would be fine without him. They’d carry on. He just had to figure out a way to be by himself too. And if he couldn’t figure it out, he’d at least find somewhere far enough away from everyone that he wouldn’t have to worry about getting too close again. He’d be fine. Totally.

First, he just had to drive all the way out of the West. It was overwhelming and too vacant all at once. The night sky in the desert made Bob feel indescribably small. So many stars stretching out over vast dirt, sand, rocks that kept their red hue even without the moon, or maybe that was his improved eyesight just reflecting the starlight and taking in more detail than he was used to.

The first time that the headlights reflected back from the pavement just right into Bob’s eyes and he got the flash of eyeshine, it scared the shit out of him.

Yeah, he was totally getting the fuck out of the west and the desert. Or at least somewhere that he wouldn’t spook himself driving at night because it was so lonesome. Maybe somewhere with hills to run and woods for cover.

  
_***Three Months Later***_   


“So,” Gabe said conversationally, leaning with complete and total casualness against the storefront when Bob came back out of the grocery.

“Go away,” Bob said, in place of a greeting.

“I was just noticing how you’ve only run as far as Nashville,” Gabe said, easily falling into step beside Bob. “Which is weird, except for how it isn’t really.”

“This isn’t running,” Bob insisted. He did not _flee_ the state. No. No matter what Frank’s increasing voicemails were insisting, even after months. Not that he was lame enough to listen to all of those and save them. Twice, once he’d finally got the nerve to start.

“This is totally running,” Gabe observed. “Completely and totally.”

Bob scowled at him.

“But buying a house. _Here._ ” Gabe lifted an eyebrow. “That surprised me a little.”

“No it didn’t,” Bob said, because he knew Gabe well enough to know that.

“Well, no,” Gabe made a disapproving face. “But buying a house? In the _Heartland_. When you could have come to mine? Excuse me for being a little upset.”

“Your _house_ is an apartment, and aside from the number of nosy neighbors that I didn’t want to accidentally maim, it’s too bright and loud. I need something quieter.” Bob explained.

Bob didn’t know why he was defended himself from Gabe, especially with that spark of trickster--of sun-patchouli-Bill-New York-desert--tickling his nose. That smell that was familiar, that he almost liked. It almost reminded him of the smell of Jersey and Frank and his pack- no, band, but not band anymore. He left. They weren’t his. He would only hurt them. And the sooner he could get Gabe to go the fuck away and back to whatever games he was playing and Bill Beckett’s bed, the sooner Bob could remember that he’d made the right decision. That Bob knew what he was doing. Because the longer Gabe stood there reminding Bob of everything warm and familiar, the more likely Bob was to just ask Gabe to take him home. Bob wasn’t even sure where home was anymore.

Gabe squeezed the bridge of his nose and muttered something about _stubborn, foolish people not knowing what’s good for them_ and then, darkly, something about how _running away is stupid and only makes people chase you. Someone could get shot or fall down a fairy knoll and why does everyone from Chicago think they’re invincible until they’re not._

“Are you sure you won’t come back with me, just to New York?” Gabe asked. “Brooklyn is barely even close to Jersey.”

“Gabe, just go, okay,” Bob said. “And don’t tell anyone where I am. I just need some time.”

Gabe sighed deeply and reached out and took one of the bags from Bob’s arms.

“Why do I get the feeling I should have just hid at Pete’s house?” Bob asked, feeling steam-rollered and leading Gabe back toward his car. He wouldn’t get rid of Gabe until Gabe had satisfied his curiosity, or whatever piqued Gabe’s interest. Might as well let the pest lug some groceries while he was at it.

“If you should be anywhere, it’s Jersey.” Gabe pointed out when they reached Bob’s car and carefully sat the brown paper bag in the trunk beside the other bag.

“No,” Bob shook his head.

“Not yet, maybe,” Gabe said. “But you are eventually going to go there. Of your own free will or so help me, I will drag you there myself. You do not understand the level of moping I’ve seen. Epic fucking moping. And Jamia’s pissed off. I don’t know which is worse, but Jamia is more dangerous.”

“You’re just scared of her,” Bob said, dismissively.

“And you’re not?” Gabe lifted an incredulous eyebrow.

“You just want me somewhere you can spy on me,” Bob grumbled.

“Not spy, that’s so invasive,” Gabe gave a little shudder. “Just keep tabs on, and no, I will not tell anyone where you are, unless they ask really specific questions or I think you’ve gotten to the point of just being a chickenshit.”

“You already think that,” Bob countered.

“Not yet, actually.” Gabe allowed. “Just.” Gabe looked determine all at once.

“What, Gabe?” Bob frowned, shut the trunk and looked at Gabe, cautiously.

“Just, stop being afraid,” Gabe said and he looked a little lost in his own head for a minute, a million miles away. He was contemplative when he said. “Stop being afraid of yourself and what you could do. You need to remember that you can make choices. And right now you don’t understand yourself, what you are, but you can learn. You have to learn and not fear it. You can use it and once you figure that out, you can stop running. Because you can never run far enough or long enough. Someone will always find you, and I’m not counting me.”

“Gabe--.”

“See you around, Bob,” Gabe gave a half-assed salute, turned, and sauntered back down the street, disappearing around a corner. Bob got the very strong impression that Gabe had admitted a lot more to Bob than he had to anyone in a long time. Truth, especially from tricksters, always made them uncomfortable and led to hasty exits.

Maybe he was a little bit right about one thing, though. Bob pulled out his phone and dialed Ray.

******

The seasons changed from late Summer to Autumn and to the bitter cold of Winter, and Bob learned to breathe. He learned to get along with his tag-along in long, dark runs and sitting in the bright of day, trying to take comfort in ghostly fur brushing against his skin.

He started calling Frank back, and they tiptoed around talking about when they’d see each other. Frank was busy with new babies and getting ready to go to Europe with the guys, and Bob wouldn’t let Frank bring up a visit. Bob just wasn’t ready yet, but he knew it was just a matter of time before Frank just showed up on his doorstep.

But Frank wasn’t the first one to show up.

*******

“Toro, what the actual shit.” Bob said peevishly when he opened the door. He wasn’t surprised, mostly. He did smell Ray get out of his rental and walk up the drive, which would be weirder than usual, but the moon was so close.

No, Bob was just resigned, even as he fought the urge to slam the door in Ray’s face and then run, pushing it down next to the freakout he was having at the time. Sunset was in an hour. But Ray had already dropped his bag on the stoop and grabbed Bob for a hug and everything felt right for a second. Ray smelled like sunshine-wind-sandalwood-pack-brother-sad-happy-airport and Bob tucked his nose into the crook of Ray’s neck and just breathed it in. It was calming.

Ray was just that kind of dude. A Ray Toro hug gave Bob the same feeling of slipping into a bath that was just the right temperature. Bob’s wolf just wanted to rub against his legs and then play and then maybe get his ears scratched. Bob’s wolf was the biggest traitor. At least, if his wolf meant it, and didn’t try to eat Ray in less than an hour. Bob’s wolf whined at the idea. Some of that whine must have been aloud.

“Yeah,” Ray said, hugged a little tighter. “I missed you too, you fucking idiot.”

“Ray,” Bob started to let go, and Ray just held on.

“Yeah, you needed time, but you took three months to fucking call—to call _me_. And you’ve been putting me off coming out here for _six months_. And you’re trying to pull away even right here and now, and you don’t get to keep doing that. Even if you won’t play with us anymore, stop pulling away.” Ray’s hands were firm, tightly fisting the fabric of Bob’s t-shirt. “Just stop.”

Bob exhaled slowly.

“Okay,” Bob said, finally, after a couple minutes. His voice was still a bit wobbly to his own ears, but he meant it. He was pretty sure that he was ready to stop hiding, that he was mostly in control of himself. At least, he’d be pretty sure if he didn’t eat Ray in an hour.

“Good,” Ray said, giving a final squeeze and let go, pulling away and giving Bob an assessing look. “Good,” Ray said, quieter and smiling, believing Bob and believing in him.

Bob bent down and picked up Ray’s bag. “I bet you want coffee,” Bob grumbled, turning to walk into the house with Ray following. He carried Ray’s bag to the guest room and flicked on the light with his free hand. He sat Ray’s bag on the bed and gestured to the room. “All right? It’s not much but I don’t have many guests. Any,” he corrected himself.

“It’s fine and it’s not a hotel, so it’s already in the ‘million times better’ column,” Ray smiled. “And coffee would be really good. I haven’t had a good cup since this morning and that was at home.”

“Well, coffee is always better at home and if someone else makes it,” Bob said. “Towels are in the hall closet,” Bob pointed at it on the way to the kitchen. “My room’s at the end of the hall, but I won’t really be using it tonight, so you’ll have to fend for yourself, but that was probably part of your plan. I’m trusting you’ve looked at the night sky anytime in the last few days,” Bob let himself sound truly bitchy at that last bit, because it was true, Ray _had_ to have planned this. Which was almost kinda sweet. Bob’s voice thawed by a couple of degrees. “There’s the TV, you know what movies I have.”

Bob made his way to the counter and busied himself with the coffee. His hands were shaking and he was pretty sure that it was nerves, even with the itch of the change underneath his skin. Ray reached out and steadied Bob’s hands.

“Hey, stop freaking out,” Ray said, taking the pot from Bob’s hand and filling it with water. Bob stepped back and leaned on the counter and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Yeah, I’m totally freaking out. I won’t be human in half an hour and I might eat you,” Bob warned, squeezing his eyes shut. “I get to freak out. You should be freaking out, but you just smell so ridiculously calm. Like everything is situation normal. Like we’re just hanging out like always and it’s sort of a lot.” He took a moment to just breathe. In and out to the count of ten.

“It _is_ like always,” Ray said, pouring the water in the pot and measuring out coffee. “Just a little different, yeah. But you’re still you. You’re still Bob. And you’re not gonna eat me. The most you’ll do is fret about whether or not you’re going to go run around in the woods like usual, or stay inside because you’ll somehow feel like you’re being rude to me by not hanging out.”

Bob opened his eyes and looked at Ray, incredulous, lifting an eyebrow. Opened his mouth to argue, then closed it.

“It’s totally cool if you’re going to go for a run,” Ray said pointedly, “especially since you somehow think that you’re a danger to me.”

“Being in a band with the Ways has made you insane, Toro,” Bob said instead of agreeing to anything. “No sense of self-preservation at all.”

Ray just smiled at him. Totally bugnuts crazy. He would have said so, but his stomach clenched and he doubled over with the pain of it. It was much later than he thought.

Ray’s hand found the back of Bob’s neck and gave a reassuring squeeze. Bob whimpered. He hated this part.

“What can I do?” Ray asked.

Bob pushed at the wolf, holding it off for a minute. “Um. Not watch. _Shit._ ”

“Okay,” Ray gave one final squeeze and quickly stepped out of the kitchen and around the corner to stand in the living room, and went no further. Bob could smell him hovering, concerned, even as he quickly shucked out of his sweatpants and out of his t shirt and stopped fighting. The change was faster now, smoother than it had been after he’d first been turned, especially when he didn’t fight it.

He’d been fighting it in the beginning without even realizing, fighting the wolf’s push-pull at every turn. But now that he’d accepted it for the most part, it wasn’t nearly as bad. But it still kind of hurt like a bitch to be rearranged from bipedal to being a goddamn wolf. He let out a muffled howl as he stood up on all fours and stretched.

Ray peeked around the corner, his hair appearing first. Bob’s tail wagged without his permission and Ray fucking beamed at him.

Bob let out a huff of air to convey just how ridiculous he thought Ray was.

“Dude,” Ray said and he sounded a little awed.

Bob walked over in attempt to herd Ray to the living room. Ray giggled tolerantly, and let Bob stare pointedly at the couch. Ray sat, turning toward Bob as Bob hopped up onto the couch and tucked his chin over his front paws. They just looked at each other for a little while, Bob getting used to the whole RaySmell 3D that he was currently experiencing for the first time as a wolf, and Ray just kinda staring at Bob like he wasn’t sure if he was going to turn back or something.

“Will you punch me tomorrow if I scratch your ears?” Ray asked wryly, after a few minutes.

Bob rolled his eyes, but moved his head a little closer. Ray’s fingers were gentle and quiet like his voice when he spoke.

“You should go see Frank,” Ray spoke. “He’s been really patient... and driving the rest of us insane.”

Bob sighed.

“Yeah. Exactly.”

*******

“Jamia. Hi,” Bob sounded so completely nervous, even to his own ears. _Way to sound together and calm, Bryar._

“Robert Bryar, so help me, if this isn’t you telling me that you’re coming to Jersey -- I may have just had twins a couple months ago, but I will not hesitate to come down there and drag your sorry ass back here,” Jamia sounded exasperated and a little exhausted, but completely serious.

“I was just about to ask if you were okay with me coming by for a visit,” Bob said. “I mean, I wouldn’t stay there, because newborns and werewolf and--.”

“Bob, don’t be an idiot, of course you’re staying here,” Jamia said firmly, but there was a little bit of a smile in her voice. He could hear it.

“But--.” Bob protested, because babies. Adorable, darling babies. Dingoes ate my babies. He had been terrified of babies _before_ he got turned into a werewolf. Something so small and fragile and defenseless.

“Ray told me that you were fine when he visited you during the last moon cycle. That there wasn’t even a hint of aggression toward him. That you laid at his feet when he said they were cold.” Bob made a mental note to kill Toro. Jamia continued. “You cannot convince me that you are even the remotest of threats to my babies. And if I thought so, do you think I would even consider inviting you to my home?” Jamia reasoned.

“Okay, fine. But don’t bitch when I shed on everything.”

“We have four dogs and Frank. Shedding is far down on my priorities list. I laugh at you even suggesting it.”

“Okay, fine.”

“Are you going to fly, or are you crazy enough to drive?” Jamia asked.

“I don’t think I could deal with planes yet,” Bob said honestly.

Jamia made a quiet understanding noise. “You’d better make plenty of stops and take two days to drive, mister. You’re no good to us if you fall asleep at the wheel and crash into a river or something.”

“Yeah, okay.” Bob grumbled.

So Bob made the drive take two days, nervous and talking himself out of turning around no less than eight times. Bob realized what a big idiot he’d been when he pulled in the drive. He’d barely had time to get out of the car when the front door was thrown open.

“Bob,” Frank said, looking far more satisfied and happy than anyone had any right to.

Bob got out of the car, said, “Hey,” and gave a little wave.

Frank charged at him, a full running leap, leaving Bob no choice but to catch him. Frank’s hands were on his face, then Frank’s mouth was on his, kissing deeply, relearning the taste of him.

Bob felt like everything was right back where it belonged.

**Author's Note:**

> Art by [](http://art-brutal.livejournal.com/profile)[**art_brutal**](http://art-brutal.livejournal.com/)  
>  and the lovely art can be found [ here](http://art-brutal.livejournal.com/4646.html).


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